


Mending Threads

by Hyena_Poison



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyena_Poison/pseuds/Hyena_Poison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick accidentally hurts Daryl during his fight with Tyreese.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mending Threads

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for a [Kinkmeme](http://twd-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/5396.html?thread=7158036#t7158036/) prompt.

Rick can’t remember getting him on the ground, doesn’t know how long he’s been using his fists. He wants to ignore that cold voice behind his thoughts—a few more punches, and Tyreese wouldn’t be a problem. But the ringing in his ears is passing, replaced by someone yelling. Carol, stop stop stop like a mantra, pulling at Rick’s shoulder.

He stops, tries to catch his breath, gets off Tyreese and paces away. Carol watches Rick between glances at Tyreese, checking his pupils, wipes away blood from his split cheek. “Check on Daryl,” she says; Rick shakes his head, confused, follows Carol’s pointed finger until he finds him. A few feet away, Daryl sits back against the concrete wall, knees up and head down. Carol offers no explanation, goes back to poking at Tyreese.

Daryl doesn’t look up when Rick squats down, doesn’t say anything; if Rick didn’t know the man, he would think Daryl doesn’t notice him. “Daryl,” Rick says, firm. A second, then Daryl meeting his eyes; Rick catches a flash of something—not the usual self-assured glint, something feral. But it’s gone before Rick can register it, replaced with a stone blankness.

It takes a moment to notice the blood, a steady drip from a cut on the bridge of his nose, both nostrils, down his lips and chin. That and the crooked angle, Rick knows it’s broken. Daryl looks away, pulls a rag from his jeans, mops at it—smears blood across his face and hands.

Tyreese yells something, shrugs Carol off and stomps away; she follows, stalls, looks between Rick and the open door. Body rigid, Daryl keeps watching the entrance even as boot echoes fade.

Rick tries, “Daryl, did Tyreese—”

“Wasn’t Tyreese,” Daryl growls over him; Rick straightens at the glare he gets. Using the wall for balance, Daryl shifts to his feet with Rick following. He staggers, Rick steadying him with a hand on his shoulder; he is surprised by the hard flinch that shakes him off.

“Daryl,” Rick calls after him, but the hunter is already disappearing into the prison. He asks, “What happened?”

It’s quite, just Rick and Carol and two charred bodies. She narrows her eyes at him, “He got in your way”.

He stares, like sooner or later she’d just tell him. It hurts when he makes a first; which is confusing, until he notices the split knuckles, purple spreading beneath his skin. He flexes his fingers, again and again until pain brings clarity: Daryl holding Tyreese by the shoulders; Tyreese slipping away as Rick throws a punch; Daryl’s head snapping back as he stumbles to the wall, Rick following. Strong arms pull him off; Rick spins and knocks Tyreese on his back. It’s static and fog and Rick had been sure it was Tyreese he’d slammed into a wall; he wants to believe that’s how it happened. That he wasn’t rage-blind, that he hadn’t hurt Daryl.

But he had.

Sighing, he rubs at his aching hand, turning to follow after Daryl.

“Rick!” Carol is looking at the wall he had shoved Daryl into. “Check his head?” Rick starts, noticing a streak of red, up about Daryl’s height. He nods, then leaves Carol with the dead. 

 

He finds him in an empty cell block—the outskirts of their little settlement. Dust and ash puff under his feet as he climbs to the second tier; Rick doesn’t bother being quiet, sure Daryl would hear him anyway. He stops at the cell door, giving him space, watches.

Sponging away blood with a rag, Daryl doesn’t pause as he eyes Rick. The bunk doesn’t have a mattress, but he sits on the flat metal like it’s just the same, crossbow positioned carefully beside him. A bandana and several rags rest on his knee, and Rick almost asks where he finds them all.

“Are you okay?” He asks instead.

Daryl glares, “‘m fine. Ain’t nothing I never dealt with before.” The blood is mostly cleaned away; Daryl sets the rag aside, fingers moving up and down his nose, testing the break.

“Maybe I should get Herschel,” Rick suggests.

He snorts, splattering drops of blood, “Herschel’s got more important shit to do.” His tone suggests that Rick should know this, should know better. “’Sides, gotta do it before it swells.”

Before Rick can protest, Daryl twists his fingers, and with a gristly crack, pops bone and cartilage back into place. He squeezes his eyes tight for a moment, the only sign of pain, then blows his nose into another rag. It’s dyed red, and blood starts down his face again.

Rick tries not to think about anything—about how this is his fault, how he let himself slide so easily into blackout rage. How Daryl had flinched, and the little thread of trust that had been snapped. He didn’t want to think about how many times Daryl had to do this, hide after some beating to fix himself up alone.

He steps forward, Daryl tensing, that animal wariness in his eyes. “Said ‘m fine. Don’t you got shit to do?” It’s hard to sound intimidating with a rag up his nose; Rick is less than put off.

“Someone needs to check your head.”

“You volunteering?”

“I’ll get Herschel,” Rick threatens.

Daryl huffs, “S’nothin’. Stopped bleeding already.”

Rick takes another step closer, “Still need to check for a concussion. Let’s see your eyes.”

“Ain’t a concussion,” Daryl refuses, leaning away from him.

He runs fingers through his hair, “But it could be.”

“Yeah? You gonna keep me awake, Grimes?”

He’s been so agreeable lately that Rick almost forgot what a pain in the ass a Dixon can be. “Jesus, Daryl—I’m trying to fix this!” Daryl looks away, bites at a nail, and shuts up. “Look, I—I’m sorry. For losing control.” Rick gestures at Daryl’s face, “For hurting you.”

Daryl picks at his thumb, lets the silence drag thick; Rick shifts awkwardly, foot to foot, not sure whether to stay or back off. But Daryl glances at him, the uncertainty there surprising Rick—like this is something completely new. Like no one’s bothered to say it before. Like no one’s cared enough to.

He’s seen some of Daryl’s scars, knows what they mean. Rick thinks about a little girl he and Shane had come for after her school called about the bruises—that same look in her eyes as they carried her away. And Rick thinks that no one came for Daryl, no one took him away.

“Got a flashlight?” Daryl asks, and Rick’s gut untwists. Rick shakes his head, no; Daryl rolls his eyes, “Figures,” and tosses his over. Rick settles onto the bunk, crossbow between them, and clicks the light on. Daryl looks at the wall as Rick watches his eyes, tracking his finger when asked.

“Looks fine,” Rick says, switching the light off. “But we’ll have to watch it for a few days.”

He says nothing, gets up and tucks the rags back into different pockets. Rick stands, passes him the crossbow once his hands are free. Daryl fidgets, biting his finger and waiting for Rick to move out of the way.

“Okay?” Rick forces eye contact.

A beat, and Daryl nods once, “Yeah,” adjusting the bow’s strap, eyes steady on his.

“Let’s go,” Rick claps him on the shoulder, and Daryl doesn’t flinch.


End file.
